The Slap

He noticed that his wife’s back had stiffened.

  The weather was perfect, a lush late-summer afternoon, with a clear blue sky. His cousin Harry arrived with his wife Sandi and their son, eight-year-old Rocco, and soon after Bilal and Shamira arrived with their two kids. Little Ibby ran straight into the lounge and plonked himself next to Adam and Sava, barely acknowledging them, his eyes riveted to the screen. The toddler, Sonja, at first refused to join the other children, nervously clutching her mother’s knees, but the laughter from the lounge room slowly enticed her away from the women in the kitchen and she eventually, quietly, went to sit on the floor next to the girls. Aisha placed a tray of party pies and sausage rolls on the coffee table and the kids swooped on them.

  Hector went out into the backyard with Bilal, and his father handed them both a beer.

  Bilal refused the alcohol with a slight shake of his head.

  ‘Come on, just one drink.’

  ‘I don’t drink alcohol anymore, Manoli. You know that.’ Hector’s father laughed. ‘You must be the only Aboriginal in Australia who not want drink.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I hear there’s also this other guy in Townsville.’

  ‘I go get you a Coke.’

  As his father shuffled slowly to the verandah, Hector pulled his friend aside and apologised.

  Bilal raised his hand to stop him. ‘Don’t worry about it. He remembers me from when I was drunk all the time.’

  ‘We were, weren’t we?’

  And as young men they had been. It was the tail end of school, back when Bilal was a bloke called Terry. Hector’s memories of his late adolescence were of seemingly endless nights of parties, clubbing, seeing bands, taking drugs, drinking, chatting up girls. Sometimes there were fights—like the night outside the doors of Inflation in King Street, when a bouncer had taken one look at Terry’s proud black pockmarked face and refused the youth entry. Hector swung at the massive bouncer and punched him square in the nose. The man bellowed and rushed at both of them, throwing Hector against a parked car—he still remembered it was a Jaguar—and with one arm keeping Terry at bay, he kept punching into him, a volley of jabs, into Hector’s back, his face, into his belly, his groin, his jaw. He’d been crippled for a week, and on top of that Terry had been furious with him for starting the incident in the first place. ‘Fucking useless wog, did I ask you to defend me?’

  Hector’s mother, of course, had blamed it all on his friend. ‘That Terry is an animal,’ she screamed at him. ‘Why are you friends with that mavraki, that blackie, all he knows to do is drink.’ But they had always been good friends, since sitting together in Year Eight in school, a friendship that continued even when Terry left to go to tech to start his sign writing apprenticeship, that flourished even as Hector went off to uni to do his commerce degree. They were still good friends—now in their forties, still living in the same neighbourhood in which they had grown up and gone to school. It was a continuity they both cherished even though they saw each other rarely. Terry had found Islam, changed his name, and stopped drinking, dedicating himself to his new faith and to protecting his family. Hector watched fondly as his friend took the Coke from Manolis, thanking him for it in the school-yard Greek that Hector had taught him when they were both fourteen. He knew that his friend was happier than at any other moment in his life. Bilal no longer lost himself in destructive rages, no longer hurt himself or dared death. But Hector also missed those nights of drinking and laughing and listening to music and being high. He wished he could split his mate into two: mostly he wanted him to be Bilal, but sometimes he wanted a night with Terry. It had been a long time since such a night.

  Hector’s work mates from the State Trustees Office arrived. Dedj walked in carrying a carton of stubbies. Leanna was with him, a bottle of wine in her hand. A dark-faced man followed silently behind them. The man was younger than the rest of them—Hector figured he must be thirty—unshaven and sullen. His face was familiar. Hector wondered if he was Dedj’s date or Leanna’s. Dedj put the stubbies on the lawn and grabbed Manolis, hugging him and kissing him on the cheeks three times in the Balkan way. Dedj gestured to the stranger.

  ‘This is Ari.’

  Hector’s father started making small talk in Greek but Ari’s own Greek was broken and clumsy. Manolis turned away and focused his attention back on the coals.

  ‘Leave it, Dad. We’ve got plenty of time before dinner.’

  ‘No, Manoli, you look after the barbecue. It will take a couple of hours to fire up.’

  ‘See?’ his father responded triumphantly. ‘Your wife is smarter than you.’ The old man placed an arm around his daughter-in-law and Aisha squeezed his hand.

  ‘Aish, this is Ari.’

  Hector noticed the young man’s approving stare and felt proud of his beautiful wife.

  ‘You look familiar, Ari. Have we met?’

  The man nodded at Hector. ‘Yep, we go to the same gym.’ Ari pointed westwards. ‘Just around the corner.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Hector recognised him now. He was one of those men who always seemed to be at the bloody gym. Hector’s attendance was sporadic at best. His morning routine was the one constant concession to exercise in his life. He’d have to go to the gym this week, to get rid of the night’s calories. And then it could be weeks before he’d go again. He figured Ari must be one of those wog guys who seemed to spend all their time at the Northcote gym, making it the centre of their social life.

  Aisha’s friends arrived next, Rosie and Gary, and their three-year-old, Hugo. Hugo looked like a cherubic, gorgeous child. He had Rosie’s straw-coloured blonde hair, and shared the almost ghostly translucent blue of her eyes. He was a delightful-looking kid but Hector was wary of him, having once witnessed the boy’s vile temper. As a toddler Hugo had kicked Aisha when they were babysitting him. They had always had a firm bedtime rule with their own children but Hugo knew no such discipline. He had cried and screamed and then started kicking when Aisha picked him up to carry him to bed. He was like a wild animal, lashing out with his feet, and one of his kicks found her funny bone. She had yelled out in pain and nearly dropped the child. Hector had wanted to smash the kid against the wall. Instead he wrenched Hugo from his wife’s arms and without a word carried him into their bedroom and chucked him on the bed. He couldn’t remember what he said to him, but he had screamed out an order so loud and so close to the little boy’s ear that the child had recoiled and started a long, disbelieving sob. Realising he had terrified the boy, Hector scooped him into his arms and rocked him to sleep.

  ‘So what’s to drink?’ Gary was rubbing his hands and looking expectantly at Hector.

  ‘I go bring,’ his father answered. ‘You want beer?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Manny, whatever.’

  ‘It’s alright, Dad, I’ll get it.’

  Gary was going to get drunk. Gary always got drunk. It had become a running joke in his family, one Aisha disapproved of because of her loyalty to her friend. Gary and Rosie have been attending their family Christmases on and off for years, and every time, once they had walked out the door, Rosie usually trying to support her staggering husband, Hector’s mother would turn to the other Greeks, raise her eyebrows and exclaim, Australezi, what do you expect? It’s in their blood!

  Hector took a beer from the mounting pile of bottles sitting in ice in the bathroom tub. From the lounge room he could hear the DVD. He could hear Adam introducing Hugo to his cousins, and smiled. He sounded like Aisha, polite, gentle, welcoming.

  Anouk and Rhys had also arrived. Anouk looked like she was dressed for a cocktail party, not a suburban barbecue. Her black denim skirt came to just above her knees, leaving a gash of pearly white flesh visible over the top of her black patent leather boots. She was wearing a see-through dark chocolate silk vest over an intricately patterned lace black bra. Hector noticed that on seeing Anouk, his mother’s lips had tightly drawn together: she started chopping lettuce with fury at the kitchen bench. But her face brightened when she was int
roduced to Anouk’s boyfriend. Rhys was an actor in the soap opera that Anouk scripted and, although Hector never watched the show, Rhys’s face was blandly familiar. He shook the man’s hand. Anouk kissed him on the cheek. Her breath was sweet and her perfume was intoxicating; he could smell honey and something tart and sharp in it. Expensive, no doubt.

  Hector was about to put on a Sonny Rollins CD when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up to see Anouk brandishing a disc.

  ‘No jazz. Aisha’s sick of jazz.’ She spoke firmly and he obediently took the CD. It was burnt and the words Broken Social Scene were scrawled in thick blue slashes of text across the disc.

  ‘Put it on. It’s one of Rhys’s. Let’s listen to what the kids are up to these days.’

  He pushed in the disc, pressed play and stood up, grinning at her. ‘The kids, eh. Then it’ll be shite r’n’b, won’t it?’

  The smoke was now streaming from the barbecue and he resisted the urge to yell at his father. Instead he circulated, pouring more drinks for the guests while Aish brought out the samosas. The women had gradually come out of the house and everyone was standing on the lawn or the verandah, drinking and biting into the delicate pastries. Hector noticed that Ari had walked away from the main group and was examining the garden. Harry announced that he had enrolled Rocco into a beachside private school and Gary immediately challenged him. Hector stayed silent. Sandi argued that the local school was inadequate for their son, that the facilities were degraded and the class sizes too large. She had wanted to send their child to a government school but there were no decent ones in the local area. Hector knew that this could not possibly be true. Sandi and Harry had left their westie childhood and adolescence far behind them: they now lived in prime blue-ribbon real estate.

  ‘Look,’ Harry interrupted his wife, and Hector could tell that his cousin was annoyed by Gary’s challenge. ‘You don’t have to tell me about government schools, mate, I went to the local tech. It was fine back then, but I’m not sending Rocco to the fucking local high school. It’s a different time—no government, Liberal or Labor, cares a flying fuck about education. There’s drugs, there’s not enough teachers.’

  ‘There’s drugs everywhere.’

  Harry turned away from Gary and whispered in Greek to Manolis. ‘The Australians don’t give a fuck about their children.’

  His father laughed but Hector’s mother suddenly spoke up.

  ‘But what if all people send children to private schools. Bad for government schools. Only very very poor people can then go and the government gives no more money. I think this is terrible. I’m happy I send my children to government schools.’

  ‘That was a different time, Thea. The world’s gone to the dogs now. It’s every man for himself. I still support public schools, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not risking Rocco’s education for my beliefs. Sandi and me both support public education—that won’t change.’

  ‘Will that be possible?’ Bilal, who had been listening silently, suddenly spoke up. ‘You won’t know what’s going on in the high schools. How are you going to know the issues and stuff my kids are facing ?’

  ‘I can still bloody read the papers.’

  Bilal smiled and said nothing further. Aisha remained quiet. Hector knew that she disliked the conversation. It was an argument that arose between them with increasingly uncomfortable regularity. She was concerned about Adam’s poor academic abilities, and wanted to enrol him in a private school. Hector doubted any school would help; the boy just wasn’t that smart. With Melissa it was different. The girl was lazy but she probably would be okay at school. But that was precisely why it wasn’t an issue with their daughter. She would be fine at Northcote High, more than fine. He was a reverse snob. He thought private education was no good for a child’s character. Private school boys always seemed effete; private school girls were up themselves and cold.

  ‘You don’t mind what that school will do to your son?’

  It was as if Gary had read his thoughts.

  Harry ignored Gary and asked Hector, in Greek, for another beer.

  Gary was insistent. ‘You don’t mind that he’ll be with all those rich snobby kids?’

  ‘Look, mate, Rocco’s grandparents on both sides were factory workers. His old man’s a mechanic. I’m sure he won’t forget where he comes from.’

  ‘You own your own shop, don’t ya?’

  Hector knew that Gary’s questions were not sinister, that the man had a real curiosity for people and their lives, that he was trying to work out where exactly Harry and his family fitted into the social order. But Hector, who knew his cousin detested obtrusive questions into his personal life, thought it best to intervene now.

  ‘I reckon it’s time for the sausages. What do you think, Dad?’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  Gary went quiet. Harry had turned his back to him and was talking sport with Dedjan. To broker the peace Sandi initiated a discussion with Rosie about children.

  At first reluctantly, Gary joined in, but soon became animated, describing the delight he received from watching Hugo grow, from trying to answer the child’s increasingly complex questions. ‘You know what he asked me the other day, when I took him to the swings at the local park? He asked me how his feet knew how to make steps. It bowled me over. It took me a long time to answer that one.’

  Yeah, yeah. Whose kid hadn’t asked that bloody question? Hector walked over to where Ari was standing smoking a cigarette, looking over the vegetable garden, at the late-season eggplants, full and black, hanging precariously from their thick pale stalks.

  ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘I’m still on this beer.’

  ‘These are the last of the melentzanes, we’ll have to use them over the next couple of weeks.’

  ‘You’ll have to make a moussaka.’

  ‘Maybe. Aish uses them a lot. The Indians love them.’

  The men stood silent. Hector struggled to make conversation. Ari’s face remained stony, his eyes ungiving.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Courier.’ Just the one word, that was all the younger man was going to give. No indication if he worked for himself or for a business or was in a partnership. Come on, man, Hector wanted to plead, help me out a little.

  ‘You’re a public servant too?’ Ari was gesturing towards Dedj who was still chatting with Harry.

  ‘I guess so.’ Ridiculous. Why did he always feel embarrassed when he mentioned his job, as if it was somehow not quite legitimate, not real work? Or was it just that he hated that it sounded so dull?

  Ari’s demeanour changed. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said, and then grinned wickedly. ‘Good job,’ he added, giving the phrase a deliberately exaggerated wog accent.

  Hector had to laugh. ‘Good job,’ he echoed in accent—it was exactly what his parents said about him. Which he did. Fuck being embarrassed. What did he want to be instead? A rock and roll star, a jazz muso? They had been teenage daydreams.

  He looked across to where Dedj and Leanna were making his cousin laugh. When he had finished his degree, Hector was twenty-three and idealistic. He had searched for and found work as an accountant for a respected overseas aid agency. He did not last out the year, hating the chaos of the office, the earnestness and antagonism of his colleagues: The books have to balance if you want to feed the world, motherfuckers. And the pay had been lousy. From there he’d gone into an internship for a multinational insurance company. He enjoyed working with numbers, appreciated their order and purity, but he found the people he was working with tediously conservative. Confident, physically capable, he had never found any need to enter into pissing contests or exaggerated jock humour. In the time between Adam and Melissa’s birth he’d drifted in and out of four jobs. Then for a three-month period he worked on a tender with the state government. Dedj had been the public servant liaison on his team and the two men had hit it off from the beginning. Dedjan was a hard drinker, a party animal and a fellow music freak. He was also disci
plined and good-humoured at work. Hector was offered a contract with the service for a year, and though Aisha had queried the opportunities for advancement, she’d reluctantly supported his taking the position. He had discovered that he enjoyed the collegiate environment of the public service office. Twenty years of economic rationalism had sliced out most of the flab. It certainly wasn’t rock and roll, it wasn’t sexy, but he was respected, did meticulous work and was given increasing managerial responsibility. He now sat comfortably on top of the bureaucratic fence negotiating compromise between the old-school bleeding hearts and the capitalist young turks. He had become ‘permanent’, the Holy Grail, and long-service leave was just around the corner. The most important part for Hector was that Dedj and Leanna, three or four others, they were like family.

  ‘What’s that?’ The low rumble of the man’s voice snapped Hector out of his contemplation. Ari was pointing towards the back fence, at the rain-worn handmade crucifix they had planted over Molly’s grave.

  ‘It’s where we buried our dog. She was mine, a damn stupid Red Setter I had for years. The kids loved her as well. Aish hated her, blamed me for never training her. But, entaxi, you know the Greeks. As if my parents were going to pay money to train a bloody dog.’

  ‘They’d be expensive, Red Setters?’

  ‘A friend of a friend of a friend. I named her after Molly Ringwald. Remember her?’

  ‘Pretty in Pink.’

  ‘Yeah, the fucking eighties, man. All shit.’

  Ari turned to him now and Hector was startled by the fiery intensity of his jet-black eyes.

  ‘I’ve got some speed on me. Dedj said you might want some.’

  Hector hesitated. It was a long time since he had taken speed. The last time was probably with Dedjan, at a work Christmas party. He was about to refuse when he remembered that he was giving up the cigarettes the next day. He wouldn’t be able to go near drugs for a long time after that.

  ‘Yeah, sure, I’ll have some.’

  ‘It’s a hundred for a cap.’